face was dissatisfied with her life
she spoke to head about their strife
he wanted something different too
I want to be witty, do not you?
She did not care about being witty
but she wanted to move to a city
They decided in a dream one day
To move to New York far away
I want to be an apartment house she said
“I agree!” instantly said the rest of her head
They detached from their body
And set off on a jet on the dot-ee
They conjured up a base and planted roots
Became an apartment housing for violins and flutes
People tried to move in too
But face and head said “shoo, shoo shoo!”
the rain is light tonight
why does the neighbor girl cry?
I hear her below this floor of mine
for the girl in me cried the tears
that rain took up and down
yes, it passed me down
holding onto windowglass
every rain
holds onto windowglass
this language maybe only I understand
my secrets spilled, but unknown
through so much movement
glass works as I see in my face
syllables
wet from familial pain to windowpane
Esther’s apartment is almost the same
As it was when she lived in its space.
Her son and her daughter-in-law (my dear friend)
Live there now and her vibe they embrace.
All her furniture’s there and her dishes and lamps
And the paintings of many a child
(Even Esther), plus one of a rabbi and all
By her father, professionally styled.
For the last twenty years of her life, Esther made
The apartment a welcoming home,
Where her family, including great-grandchildren, came,
Never thinking they’d be in a poem.
But my favorite thing was the album, quite big,
Of her wedding, a gala affair,
All the images captured in black and white shots
With a true 1950-type flair.
Esther’s spirit lives on, which would not be the case
If my friend and her husband weren’t there,
But they’ve honored her past as their future is made
Which, to me, seems so special and rare.
Play the Cello my fellow.
The music floats into a mellow.
The light glistens on the chandelier.
Twinkle twinkle here and near.
The blue sofa perched close to the window.
Looking inward at the doggy below.
The books float on a tableau.
Giving enlightenment to whoever seeks them solo.
The records lay flat on the hardwood floor.
Scratched and scarred to never play a song.
The fireplace has no roaring embers.
But the mantel carries dimly lit flames.
The islands of plants takes the Sun thru the southwest window.
Trading in CO2 for a few sounds from the Cello.
There is a need for quietness today,
I listen to my neighbor's toilet flush,
it takes a long time for the sound
to drain away and refill,
I hold seconds inside my mind
between that rise and fall.
There is space for listening,
the trash compactor chews on
when switched off.
I hear conversations
filtering through the air conditioner,
words both distinct and garbled.
Yesterdays hurried meal
speaks still, moments explore
newly opened pocket.
This is not silence
sound moves upon carpet slippers,
yet steps are heightened
by being audible
in a lower registry of depth.
It is I who creates this lengthening,
this processional unwinding of
of unremarkable moments,
a distance between
and marked by blank labels -
every note,
an eavesdropping deliverance.
Memory Poem In Apartment A - 1971
a brace of wine glasses standing tall on a kitchen table
greasy frying pan luxuriating immodestly in the kitchen sink
two forks and two knives bathing naked in the steamy water
vinyl black record spinning clockwise under a cool ceiling fan
music by beethoven caressing the hour with perfume sounds
clock on the television console ticking with slicker love-bites
purple pleated pillow breathing excitedly on a big green sofa
portraits of curious dead people peeping through glass frames
bowl of red fruit sitting ripe and ready on an oak dining table
wide open window allowing a red sunset through shy curtains
bathroom faucet in pink bathroom dripping rivulets of sweat
silent resplendent wall mirror staring with secret fascinations
a brace of wine glasses standing tall on a kitchen table
An apartment building is a giant,
Tall.
Holding so many in its clutches.
An apartment building is a means of protection.
A means of shelter:
Protecting from storms.
An apartment building is a monster
With thousands of eyes
That gaze upon you as you pass by.
It should have said St John’s - with that apostrophe!
So many omit the little mark.
How could they, when its presence or absence
gives us one meaning or the other?
A tenant within these apartments
who is a mysterious lady,
placed the absent apostrophe on that poster,
kept this nighttime act a secret, and crept away.
St John was a saint we remember,
on the twenty-fourth of June:
it’s St John’s Day.
And this little mark marks that.
Without this modest mark, this little apostrophe,
we have a plural, not a possessive.
So how many Johns were there?
Or are these apartments named
after just the one John, as we’re told -
the one that has that little apostrophe?
Often do I wonder who
the mysterious tenant is, the one
who posts missing apostrophes.
(3 Sep 2024)
Her apartment house was shaped like a tall woman’s boot.
I could see why she chose to live there, it did in fact suit.
Her disposition, her opinions, her ideals and her attitude.
Being inside with her, reading, put me into a powerful mood.
Women power forever! My assertive, opinionate Aunt Bertie said.
She had the attitude of Rosie the Riveter firmly stashed in her head.
I inherited her apartment, although my name is not Francine, but Fred.
The only man to live here. With the women’s antics, my face is usually red.
A lot I could say about my bookshelf:
In a way like my half-understood self.
A first-time user should seek my half help
Against a blind book search and its yelp!
Supports the cruel weight of three thousand books:
Fat ones except Camus’ that it brooks,
Golding’s moderate-sized up to ten
And Hemingway’s made to stand like brave men!
Wood that clearly woos the works of laureates,
Notwithstanding, kept spaces for Harriet’s,
Able to secure them from clinched finesse;
Never much in shelf owner’s non meanness…
Shelf that says ‘Yes’ too to Science Fiction
The Best-Sellers for their winsome diction;
War novels that claimed a whole compartment
Some headache to Romance Apartment…
Then, Travels and Autobiographies:
Fine ones picturing Great Lives like trophies;
Frame that made sure it quartered the classic
For to have not done so the Quite Sick…
The flawless apt I want to often lick
And side-talks suppress in South Africa’s click;
The brownish shelf as tall as Hulk Hogan
Had my body organs joined as organ.
We sat on the porch of your best friends apartment
Celebrating time with cigarettes and conversation
You sat on my lap; a siege concealed in a kiss
My envy revealed with the feel of your swollen lips
Inhaling your breath like a cold, autumn wind
Those Marloburo reds and your darkness within
Despite all the secrets; freely bleeding from me
You bought every line that your heart would believe
Heroically spoken like words from a pyre
I needed you more, for curves to admire
Raspy alto tones spoke fallacies that day
The echoes of your voice; a dark angel's decay
The goddess within died a little more that night
Teenage love billowing smoke of suburban delight
The heat of the pyre fueling desire inside
A ghost found her voice, with nowhere to hide
I wanted to sway like your hips in the wind
Those cold, autumn nights, and my darkness within
Two agents of chaos in the coldest of nights
Beginning at dawn; the march of my plight
High above the quiet, darkened streets of January, the night wind begins to whisper secrets through my apartment window casements. Far below me lie four cafes, all in sync as they awaken from daytime hibernation to begin an evening ritual of turning on lights, welcoming thirsty patrons, discouraging lost polar bears, trying to survive.
Light bulbs hang in lazy swags, dripping evenly from the edge of each identical awning. Predictably, their glow travels as fast as the light itself creating a sudden and uninvited interruption of the Arctic desert landscape.
Sitting apart on their respective corners below, the cafes squeeze into a single pane near the bottom of my window. Leaning closer, I blow a hot and intoxicated breath onto the glass in defiance or retaliation, an attempt at immolation perhaps. Instead, my unused air lies wasted across the cafes on the other side of the window, in an irregular oval of futility.
I use a balled-up fist to wipe away the misty scene before it has a chance to evaporate and leave me alone, a desperate and inevitable disappearing act in the face of my curated isolation.
To the left of my apartment a baby is chronically crying.
To the right of my apartment a couple is arguing,
and above my apartment parents are disciplining their children.
Most living in such an environment might find this noise pollution annoying,
but I on the other hand find it quite entertaining.
Despite all of the continual audio chaos that surrounds me,
I find myself smiling and grateful for my life of solitary,
while silently thinking as I smirk, "Sure glad that's not me."
A man’s apartment is airily roomy
But wears he a face real gloomy …
Soon, I find out his eyes are rheumy
And he thinks he got them through me!
Lousy Guy! My eyes for long not rheumy;
Two years now they to overseas flew me …
And with rheumy eyes in a shelter roomy
One should a reason find to be not gloomy,
Unless issues too has about one’s tummy
Or bemoaning a perception as Dummy.
I solemnly received my first toilet auger
As if it were a knight’s well-tempered sword.
It meant I’d passed my ninety-day audition,
And seemed to me a suitable reward.
And so began my tenure working maintenance
In the nasty nitty gritty of a toxic circumstance.
But I’d scored a small apartment, living duty-free,
So, it was time for starting over’s second chance.
A thousand plus apartments needed tending.
When a work ticket printed, I called dibs.
Seventy buildings built of brick and dreams.
I was privy to the skivvy in all those skeevy cribs.
I’ve encountered many silent tribal totems:
Hindu murti, Christian chi rho, Muslim script.
But no matter the religion of the trouble call,
For every useful purpose, I came suitably equipped.
There were feral cats, roaches, and bedbugs
Infesting hoarders’ floorspace wall-to-wall.
I dealt as best I could with the detritus,
But my biggest stress was over-night on-call.
While paying the price of complete independence
I may sometimes have hammered my thumb.
Though I may be a hack in the handyman trade,
I conducted my final campaign as my army of one.
And I came off a winner.
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